A Sorta Fairytale
by Crimson Bttrfly
Summary: Sex, drugs, and music... See the PreBebop world through the eyes of the hellish angel herself...
1. Once Upon a Time

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Summary: Sex, drugs, and music... See the PreBebop world through the eyes of the hellish angel herself... 

Rating: M – for language, sex, and violence

Disclaimer: I **DO NOT** own the rights to Cowboy Bebop.

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**A Sorta Fairytale**

I'm not asking you to like my story. Really. I'm not that deluded. I've done a lot of things, and I mean _a lot_ of things which aren't too great. But, haven't we all? I mean, c'mon, think about it. You must've done some really horrible things in your time. Remember that girl in grade school you made cry..._on purpose_? The lover you used and ditched? The person in need you walked by, pretending you didn't notice because you were late for something? We _are_ human, right? We make mistakes. It's our nature. But, as I was saying – I'm not asking you to like my story, or me for that matter. I'm just asking you to hear me out...

- - - -

It all began on a March day. And by _began_, I mean me – my life. It was storming that day, which, in retrospect, I think was an appropriate setting for my grand entrance. My mother died that day as well. So as one went out, another went in. Tragic, really. She was only 34 when she passed giving birth to me. I think that neatly sets the tone for my life, oddly enough.

My father, respecting my mother's wishes, named me "Julia". I was never too fond of the name, but I suppose few are fond of their names. After naming me, my father exited stage left when he realized that he would be taking care of a baby solo. Baby-sitting, and I mean who are we kidding, parents are just glorified babysitters, is expensive business. There's the diapers, the bottles, the wipes, etc. I suppose he couldn't handle it. I honestly don't blame him. I never much liked babysitting myself.

So, I was barely a week old and I had already lost everything, because what more does a babe have than her parents? I was given to my aunt and uncle on my mother's side. Not a good time there. Anne and Dick, my "guardians", were...well... They probably shouldn't have owned a dog much less raise a baby girl. I guess whoever was doing the screening back at DCF the day I was being assigned was blind, deaf, _and_ dumb. I would come to learn that these three aforementioned traits would be a requirement for those working most government jobs...

More about Anne and Dick... Anne worked as a maid at the _posh_ hotel, Barney's Sleep a Wink. I kid you not. I would later find out that Barney's "pay by the hour rates" made it a hot spot for the local _working girls_. How I found out this little piece of information...well that comes later.

Dick was something else, and not in a good way. I would much rather spend my time with Anne at her highest drug-induced moment, than Dick at his most sober. Dick was scum. He was roughly 5'6" and round. He was ill kept, and kept five long grey stands of hair swept over his balding head in some weird attempt to "hide" it. He worked as a used car salesman moonlighting as an alcoholic. Alcohol is a nasty thing, and I would soon learn this fact when I hit eight years.

Anne worked nights at the Roach Motel, so that left me with good ole Dick from the moment I stepped off the school bus until I went to sleep. There wasn't much sleeping, though... not for me anyway...

They always said I was a beautiful child. I suppose this was what spawned Dick's Lolita-esque fascination with me...and my body. It was hideous, the things he did to me, and there was no one I could go to for protection.

"You could've gone to your school counselor. You could've told your aunt..."

People say the stupidest things. I suppose I could've gone to my counselor, but then I probably would have been killed by good ole Dick. And, Anne already knew about our one-sided _interludes_. Dick was anything but _discrete_, and Anne was too high on whatever she was main-lining at the time to notice my blood stained night gowns, or my intense fear and hatred of the man. She lived in her own dazed dream-world because reality is a bitch.

When I was younger I felt there were few things I could do to stop the nightly assaults. I tried to remain very active in school. I joined every club, and I mean _every_ club and sport available to me from middle school on. I was in the art club, the math club, the key club, and I was on the basketball, volleyball, and soccer teams.

The constant need for stimulation to drown out my horrible existence had taken a toll on me physically. At 5'7" I weighed 97 lbs. I remembered the day I found that out... They were doing a "weigh in" at the schools to monitor the obesity rates of children. I was fourteen when they called me in and took my weight. I couldn't believe it. I hadn't noticed that I was slowly vanishing, or that there was even a problem. It wasn't an eating disorder, though; rather, it was a "thinking disorder". I wasn't intentionally trying to lose weight, nor did I want to be that skinny. I just _couldn't_ eat because my mind was always going 50 different ways at once. Like, if I was wearing a yellow sundress, I couldn't eat an apple because I thought the fruit would clash with my dress. It was odd, really. I couldn't eat the turkey sandwich at Susie's birthday party because I was wearing my lucky charm bracelet. I also could never gain weight because whatever I did eat I worked off doing all of my activities. I was literally "Julia, the Amazing Vanishing Girl", and the scary thing was that I _wanted_ to disappear – not lose weight, mind you, but literally disappear. I wanted to fade away because, in my warped mind, if I was invisible then Dick couldn't see me and therefore couldn't hurt me. Little did I realize that I would be dead.

After that day on the scale, I realized my mistake...my bad judgment. I left home that day. I didn't know where I thought I was going to go, or really why I left. I just came home, packed some things and left. I would soon come to find that, _yes_, life could get worse...

There's a reason why kids should have responsible babysitters, because life on the street is hard. I had spent only two days existing on the dark, friendless, Martian streets when I realized that perhaps death wasn't such a bad option. I mean, I either had to deal with Dick or the thugs and wild animals roaming the city streets. I didn't think there was any other way. I suppose I could have turned to friend, but all of the friends I knew came from nice loving homes. They had parents who were good responsible people, and they would want to do something about Dick. I didn't want to face Dick, or verbalize the little _secret_ we shared. And, I was stupid. I just wanted to separate myself from my previous life altogether. In one fell swoop...

Dick found me on the third day. I had been wandering around aimlessly, going from store to store to kill time during the day. I didn't know what the hell I was doing, nor did I have a plan. He found me and brought me home. He was angry, and he told me if I wanted to act like a common street tramp, then he would arrange it to be done properly. I had no idea what he was implying at the time...

Apparently between Dick's jobs of being a lush, a husband, my guardian, a worker at Bob's Used Cars, and an all-around _swell_ guy, Dick had a gambling problem. He had managed to run up some pretty high debts, and was stupid enough to use a loan shark to temporarily cure his financial dilemma. Hugh... I _did_ mention Dick was not particularly bright, right?

Since Dick wasn't exactly punctual with his payments, the syndicate loan sharks were not happy. Lacking the money to pay them off, Dick decided to offer me up to them instead. Nice, uhm?

It had been about a week since my street _excursion_. Things had calmed down at the house. I was gaining some weight, Anne had surprisingly managed to remain sober, and Dick left me alone. I should've known that things were just too good to last, but I didn't suspect a thing that Saturday night.

Anne didn't work Saturdays, and Dick told her he was inviting some of his "poker buddies" over for a game. "Go out with the girls. Take some time for yourself. I'll watch over Julia," he had told her.

I was there when he said it. The moment I comprehended the words I could feel 100 lbs of dread fall on my shoulders. I knew something was amiss when I heard, "I'll watch over Julia." I remember swallowing hard and frantically looking over at Anne. She didn't suspect a thing, and in a rare moment, she smiled. I was dead... I just _knew_ it. My body numbed, and I stiffened as I watched her take her purse in her hand and walk out the door. I quietly left the living room where it all took place, and hid in my bedroom. I locked the door behind me and stuffed myself in the closet. The closet had become my most favorite room in the house, and I would later take this strange love of closets into my adulthood...

Two hours later and I could hear some commotion. The sounds of strange male voices were coming from the kitchen. I held my breath and closed my eyes. I remember thinking I was a butterfly – a beautiful untainted butterfly who could fly away from this... this life. I almost believed it, too. The mind is a strange thing. Then, I heard a pounding at my bedroom door.

"Julia, are you in there?" I can hear those words as if they were fresh to this day. The loud gruff male voice conveying not a question but a statement. He knew where I was, and it sounded like it.

I cringed, feeling a burning eating at my neck as I buried my face in my hands. He continued to pound on the door for a good minute or two. His pounding got louder and louder with every second until he finally screamed my name. I tensed and wrapped my arms around my knees. I pretended that I couldn't hear him. But I could. I could hear him loud and clear...

I had begun to sob in some vain attempt to drown out the yelling. Oh, God, the yelling... I can still hear it... I don't know how they did it, if they picked the lock or shot it off, but they entered the room. It was only a matter of seconds before they found me all curled up into a little ball. I could feel two pairs of hands pull me up and briefly lift me off the ground.

"She's too thin," I could hear one of the faceless men say.

_Yes, I'm too thin. I'm hideous. Now, leave me alone! _Were the silent words running through my mind.

The other man grabbed me by my tear-stained face and inspected me. Apparently liking what he saw, he gave me a wicked smile. "She'll do."

The two men pulled me out kicking and screaming. It didn't matter what I did. I was going. And I was going to do whatever it was, and I was going to do it fucking well. Because that's what I did... I was Julia, the Amazing Vanishing Girl, and the more they took from me, the more I vanished inside...

I was taken to a Martian brothel. They told me it was the _best_ one in the city. I'm sure they thought so since their syndicate ran it... My time there as a hired "worker" was brief in comparison to the other women, but working there a day was too long from where I stood. I managed to stash enough money away so I could make an escape, and I was good at swindling the male clients. A little _flunitrazapam _and they were out like a light. I would then take as much of the money or possessions I could get my hands on. Of course the men would wake up realizing that they had been robbed blind, so I made sure to choose men who stood something to lose if their little hobbies were discovered. And really, could a female prison be so bad? I was working within the Martian underworld – the worst of the worst – prison would've been an upgrade.

I took the money I had put away and escaped two years later. I didn't go far, though. I moved to a different district... to a different syndicate territory, and rented an apartment under a fake ID. I was sixteen at the time, and I had no idea what the fuck to do. I had escaped prostitution, but what _could_ I do? I would need a job... but where? What skills did I have? I was just a kid.

I found a job as a waitress at Tom's Diner. It was a quaint little place. The food was bad, but then the customers it attracted weren't too discriminating. I needed the money so I wasn't complaining. And even though I didn't make much, I made enough to live in peace... not _well_, but in peace.

Tom's was the only place open 24 hours a day on that side of town, and I was working the late shift one night. There was no one there, or so I thought, when I began to hum some made-up tune while cleaning the counter. I was oblivious to the man who had entered, and probably would've remained so if he had not caught my attention with a soft, "Miss?"

I looked up, embarrassed to have been singing lightly under my breath, and for my lack of professionalism. "I'm sorry," I quickly responded.

"If it's the singing you're apologizing for, don't. It was actually quite good." The man was dressed in a suit, and younger.

I smiled in shame before walking over to his booth to take his order. He politely ordered the steak and cheese sandwich. I gave the order to the cook in the back and returned to start a fresh pot of coffee.

"I'm sorry to bother you, but the jazz singer at my club up and left, and I was wondering if you would –"

"Yes." I had answered before he had gotten the words out of his mouth.

He laughed and shook his head. "You're a hungry one aren't you?"

"Starved."

"Come by tomorrow afternoon. I'll introduce you to the band to see if we can make it work. The club is called The Standard. It's on the corner of 5th and Vine. Ask for Greg Stratland."

"Tomorrow" couldn't have come soon enough. I came. I saw. I conquered. I was one lucky girl. I still kept my job at Tom's and worked mornings, practiced with the band in the afternoons, and at night I was free to let my heart sing. And, it longed so much to be heard.

I was as happy and as free as a bird, but happiness only lasts so long... My world came grinding to a halt one Wednesday night. Wednesdays were always slower than usual, and we were just about to finish our last set. In fact, I had taken a small water break, and when I returned to the stage, _it_ happened.

Three strange men had walked into the club earlier that night. They were syndicate men, I could tell from the way they handled themselves. I had grown accustomed to that type of man since many of them frequented the club with no harm done. That night was different. I had come back up to the stage when I heard the sound of a gunshot fire. I had frozen when I saw one of the men fall face forward on the table. Blood was spewing everywhere... All of that blood...

Somewhere amid the confusion sounding in my head, I heard my name called. It was Greg. I turned and miraculously caught the keys he had tossed me.

"Ugh?" I murmured, vexed.

"Take my keys, and go!" he called frantically.

I was beginning to see why the last singer quit... I turned to face the two live syndicate men. Both were about the same height, but spitting opposites of the other. One had dark hair and an olive complexion. He was casually dressed in a sweatshirt and jeans. The other was pale and blond, and wore a three piece charcoal-colored suit.

I was stunned. The two men were beginning to drag the dead body out the back when I finally realized what was expected of me... Somehow I had been designated "getaway driver", and I didn't even have a license. I blinked and glanced down at the keys in my hands.

"Julia, now!" Greg ordered. I furrowed my brow and shot him a nervous glance before running out of the club.

"Which car is Greg's?" one of the two asked, seeing that the lot had several.

Unsure, myself, I hit the "unlock" button, and the car's lights flashed. I quickly popped the trunk and helped the men dump the body into the trunk. Adrenaline was coursing through my veins as I hopped into the driver's seat. Having seen a few black cars with lights turned off flooding the street, I knew this ride was going to be frantic.

I don't know how I did it. I suppose it was an untapped talent, but I _could_ handle a car. The blond man barked directions, and I expertly followed them. And as good as I was, I hated every minute of it. Every single goddamned minute of it. When we got to the destination specified, I got out of the car and watched as the two drug the man's body out of the trunk. They tossed it off the side of a cliff into the bay below.

I was clenching my folded arms against my stomach, and nervously biting my lip. I was supposed to be on watch to see if we were still being followed. However, I was in shock and panic. I could hardly think straight. There had been a dead man stuffed into the trunk of a car... a car _I_ was driving. It didn't seem real... but it was.

"We're ready," the darker of the two called. I tensed and complied. The drive back to town was relatively uneventful...well, we didn't have anyone tailing us at least...

"Hey, you were pretty good back there." It was the casual of the two who had spoken. Both men were seated in the back of the car. "Do this often?" he asked playfully.

I glanced into the rearview mirror to see him watching me. I flicked my eyes back to the road. "No. I don't have a license."

I got a rise out of both men. The brunet laughed at the sheer coincidence, and the blond gave a half-grin.

"What's your name?" the brunet asked, amused.

"Julia. Yours?"

"Spike, and this over here is Vicious."

"_Lovely_," I sighed. Just _fucking _wonderful. I had a _Spike_ and a _Vicious_ sitting in the back of a car I was illegally driving. A car I had used to dodge some very angry men in black because there was a dead guy in the back of it. And, these two brain-trusts behind me had the nerve to _laugh?_ Did they not notice that the man was dead? We had been driving around Mars with a corpse. The corpse of a man they killed... Did they not understand that this was all _wrong_?

"'Lovely' as in you like our names, or 'lovely' as in you're hauling thugs around in a car you say you can't drive?" Spike asked.

"The latter."

"You'll be paid well," Vicious assured me.

"Keep your blood money. I don't want it."

"So, I guess you don't want us to call or anything," Spike added sardonically.

I was seething in anger. I had finally found peace, and then enter two oddly named men to screw it all up...


	2. In a Far Away Place

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**Disclaimer: I DO NOT own the rights to Cowboy Bebop.

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When I got home, I became personally acquainted with the bathroom – more specifically, the toilet. I threw up, and threw up, and when I thought I was done, I threw up some more. I couldn't think. My mind was being pulled in all directions. My body felt like it was on fire, and my heart stammered, hammered, and skipped beats every time I mentally revisited the night's events. I couldn't take it. I know I sound hypocritical. I mean, it's not like I was "Little Miss Innocent" before, but I never aided in a homicide. Really, there were times I _wanted_ some of the people around me to die, but I wanted no part in the act. Never. And, I don't know if you can comprehend how it feels to be apart of someone's death, but it's not fun. It's horrible. I can't stress that enough.

I couldn't focus on any one thought. Instead, I was lost in a stream of thoughts. It wasn't like _I_ was the one who killed the man per se, but... I hated myself. I was weak. I had always been weak. All one had to do was say my name and ask and I'd jump like some trained seal. I've always hated that about my personality. I dunno why I do it. But, I do. Good ole Julia would never turn someone down. She might rob you blind when you're not looking, but she's always there to help out. I hated myself, and at that moment, in that small dank bathroom, I was acutely aware of the extent of my self-loathing.

When I finally finished my puke-fest, I staggered to get up off the cold tile floor. I was weak, physically this time, and could barely stand. Feeling my equilibrium wane, I braced myself against the small metal sink. Bad idea. When I looked up into the mirror, I couldn't face what I saw – my own reflection. God, my thoughts filled with horrible ideas, my heart froze, my blood ran cold, and anger flared in my stomach. I wanted to scream. I wanted to sob. But most of all, I wanted to lay down and die. I was a _murderer_. Perhaps I didn't pull the trigger, but at that moment all logic gave way and _I_ was the one responsible. It was all _my_ fault. Strange, I know. But as I gazed into the mirror and saw my reflection, I looked myself straight in the eye. Blue eyes starring into blue eyes. I was a shell of a person, a mere mask, and I could no longer take it. I don't know what took hold, anger most probably. Oh yes, anger – an emotion I knew best only next to desperation. At that moment, it was a desperate type of anguish seeping into my very being – like a caged animal that sees its captor. I saw my captor... I was looking her in the eye. I also saw the four hateful men who cursed me that night. And I was powerless. The deed had been done. But that didn't help the fact that I had all sorts of emotions coursing through me. I balled my right hand into a fist and glared my captor right in her blue eyes and ran my fist straight into her face. My captor didn't have a face, of course, so my fist met the painful sharpness of the glass mirror. My fingers were laced open. Blood quickly began streaming down my arm, and fell in droplets to the sink and then the floor when I brought my hand up to inspect the damage.

There was something perversely intriguing about the liquid and the pain. Perhaps it was just my thoughts trying to shift to something other than that night. I probably would have found the bathroom ceiling a natural wonder of the world, I was so burnt out. I don't know what happened afterward. I must've blacked-out since I awoke sprawled on the floor with a puddle of blood pooling around my injured hand.

_Fuck, Julia. What did you do? What the hell is wrong with you? Look at yourself, all laid out here on the ground like some dog. And your hand... What the hell were you thinking? Well, you can't go to the doctor's, yunno. You don't have insurance! No one will take you in, and even if they did you can't afford it, rent is due next week so you're just going to have to deal. Look it's going on ten-o'-clock, you're late to the diner. Jesus, get your ass off the floor, wrap the hand, and go. You have work to do. Get up!_ These were the thoughts running through my head. So, I got up, washed my wound, wrapped it with a torn washcloth, got dressed in my uniform, and calmly left my apartment. Depersonalization can be a wonderful self-defense mechanism.

I went to work. Got yelled at for being late. Wasn't fired, but was threatened with the furies of hell for my offense. I skipped practice, went home, rewrapped my hand, and passed out on the bed. I probably would have slept well into the next day if it hadn't been for the ringing of my phone. Instinctively, I reached over and tore the phone off the base and gave a groggy, "Hello."

"Julia?" It was Greg. Dammit.

"What?" I admit that my voice was harsh, but it was easily covered by my grogginess, so my agitation went unnoticed.

"You _are_ coming tonight, right? The boys said you missed practice."

_What the hell? This man has balls to call me up after what happened last night and expect me to be all peachy about it. Who the hell does he think he is, anyway?_ "Um," was my answer, however.

"I really think it would be in your best interest if you came." His words were heavy with double meaning, and I perked up on my bed at this. What? If I didn't come what would happen? Would Greg fire me? Would the two thugs, Killer and Fluffy, do me in like the suit from last night? However, I think the most important question was: Did I even care if they did?

"Julia?"

"Yes?"

"You're coming, right?"

"Uh-huh," I muttered unconvincingly under my breath. See what I mean? Ask and I'll be there.

"Good. There's a surprise for you, so come in a little early."

"If the surprise is anything like last night's, you can keep it," was what I _wanted_ to say. What I _did_ say was probably more along the lines of, "Okay. Wonderful. I'll even help clean up if you want me to. See, I really am like a lap-dog!" Alright, maybe I wasn't _that_ sanguine, but still...

I got there five minutes early. I thought this would be a slight to Greg, but he was no where to be found when I entered the club. Instead, I was cheerfully greeted by Daniel, a gay bartender.

"Hey, Julia!" he called loudly from across the bar. The club was filling in nicely since Thursday was college night, or something. I managed to spot Dan through the throng of people as he waved me over to the dressing room in the back. I think I shot him a faint smile in acknowledgment or something so he got the point that I saw him.

When I wandered to the back, he quickly pulled me in and hastily led me to the vanity occupying the left wall. "Look, look!" he gushed like some seventeen-year-old school girl.

"Ugh?" was the only sound of intelligence I could muster. "What is it?"

"A present!"

"Who's it from?"

"No one knows. Well, maybe Greg knows, but he's out right now. It was delivered to you this afternoon. Open it!"

I furrowed my brow as I inspected the package. It was neatly wrapped. It felt light in my hands, and made a muffled scratching noise when I shook it. Nope, it definitely was _not_ ticking.

"Hurry up!" Dan urged.

I made a worried face as I looked over at him. I hadn't received a present since... well... _never_, now that I think about it. Anne and Dick were tight with the money (or lack thereof) and so birthdays consisted of... nothing and neither of the two were religious so no holidays or anything. And then at the brothel... well you can see where I'm going with that.

I hesitantly peeled back the shiny wrapping to expose a plain white box. "Oh, well," I sighed unconvincingly. I didn't want a gift from some strange person. I didn't want a gift from _anybody_. In my world, gifts just don't happen, and if they do, I'm sure strings were attached. Period. So, I laid the box back down on the vanity.

Daniel quickly countered my action by shooting me one hell of a glare, as if to say, "What the hell is wrong with _you_, woman?" He then snatched the gift from the vanity and waved it in my face.

"There's something in it!" I'm sure he wanted to complete that sentence with, "dumbass," but Dan was a true gentleman and would never have said it even if that was what was so plainly written on his face.

I took the box again and pulled it open. "See, nothing–" I wanted so desperately to be able to finish that sentence, but couldn't, because there was something in the box. A very beautiful something.

"Vintage? No? Yes, vintage!" Daniel shrieked with glee as he unfurled the gift. Well, I was glad that someone in the room knew _what_ it was other than "pretty" because that was the best word I could find to describe it, besides "dress". Too bad poor Dan couldn't have used it, since I think it was better suited to his taste than mine...

"Armani," he gushed, putting the black dress against my frame. "I think it will fit beautifully. I wonder who could've bought it? Someone with exquisite taste. Now, who would you know like that, Julie?"

My eyes narrowed at the insinuation. Even though Dan quickly realized his offense and apologized, I couldn't argue with him. I _knew_ no one who might even know what the hell an "Armani" was, or where to locate one since it seemed expensive and in good taste... At least, according to Dan.

"I don't know anyone who would give me a gift let alone an Ar-man-y." I struggled to remember what the hell he had just said.

"Armani," he corrected. "Well, who cares who bought it. It's yours! Now, go put it on and come out on stage so I can see you in it. I bet it's just as lovely on as it is off. And your blonde hair will go so well with it..."

"I don't think so," I responded cautiously. "I don't want anyone's handouts."

"Hugh?" Dan looked befuddled by my logic. Honestly befuddled. "Trust me, girly, when the _'handout' _in question is something as extraordinary as _this_ dress, any woman in her right mind would take it. So, put it on and enjoy the good luck. It was probably just Greg who bought it anyway. So look at it as part of your job, wearing that dress. You're a performer, so you need to look your best. Look at it as a business thing rather than a personal thing."

My expression soured, I'm sure, as he gave his speech. A speech that was wrong on so many levels – at least to my self-esteem anyway. Defeated and somewhat humiliated, I agreed to wear the beautiful dress-from-hell that night... Another one of my many "bad ideas" along the road to My Self Destruction. But, I do have to admit, the dress looked and felt beautiful on. I should've known...


	3. There Was a Princess

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Rating: M**

**Chapter: **Three: There Was a Princess

**Disclaimer: **I DO NOT own the rights to Cowboy Bebop

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The club on Thursday was always crawling with people, most of which were underage teens. I never really understood what about a jazz club would attract teens, but nonetheless. It was time to go on…in my new black dress and wrapped hand.

The club was a hazy blue as usual, and the smell in the air was indescribable. It smelt of a mixture of musk, alcohol, cigarettes, and cheap perfume, and perhaps there was something else lingering in the air that night – something ominous…Or maybe my senses were on high alert due to a certain _present_.

As soon as I stepped on stage the band began. The first few songs were sultry sad ones. I knew the words, but hell if I could tell you what they were about. Some of them expressed emotions I had never experienced and I doubted I ever would. Some of the songs' lyrics were ridiculous and relatively meaningless.

I had refused to scan the crowd or make eye contact with any of the patrons for a good half of the night. I was too afraid of whose attention I would catch or who would catch mine. I should have gone on staring into the hazy blue lights, but alas curiosity is a cruel bitch.

I quickly scanned the crowd and I saw _him_. It was the blond from the night before – I thought. My eyes instinctively darted from his position at the table in a corner to a young college-age guy trying to make conversation with a girl at the bar who seemed more interested in the girl to her left. None of the three were paying attention to me, and for that I was grateful. They had unofficially become my muse for the night…or at least they occupied a "safety" area where I could turn my gaze when I felt the ghosts from last night haunt my thoughts.

I dunno why, but after feeling my courage, or bravado, return to me, my eyes darted back to the corner table where I had seen the blond. Damn those eyes of mine! If there had been any suspicion, it was now gone. It was _him_. Our eyes met – blue to blue. I was prepared to feel a chill surge down my spine, but there was nothing. No fear. No anger. Instead I experienced something much more confounding – understanding.

I don't know how or if my lips and voice kept up with the song. I assume I was still singing despite the fact that my mind was consumed with the strangeness that had befallen me. I expected to feel anger, or, at the very least, anxiety when I saw him. Yet, a strange realization gripped me. Neither he nor I were the masters of our fate. A lackey in a syndicate is no more than a pawn on a chessboard, and a sixteen year old singer at a hazy jazz club is the queen of nothing.

He sat tall and looming. His expression was icy. His eyes, however, betrayed his stony countenance. Perhaps Stockholm Syndrome had set in and I was making it all up, or perhaps he had one too many drinks and was beginning to let loose, but there was something sad expressed in those frosty eyes.

I blinked. When I turned my attention back to his table he was gone. _Impossible_, I thought to myself. Was he merely a phantom? Or…

There was another man at the table; he seemed to have been sitting there for a while and I had just failed to notice him. I looked him over, but could not place him. He definitely was not "Spike" from last night. He was too formally dressed, and his hair, while dark, was too long and straight to be him. The man, however, was definitely syndicate, and he probably ranked higher than the two from last night. I could tell this by his jacket. The syndicate members, especially the more experienced ones, dressed a certain way. This guy was wearing a long jacket with a red lapel. Based on the color of his lapel, the man was most likely working for the Red Dragons. At this little epiphany, I felt hundreds of icy pin-pricks inch down my back. The RDS was one of the most influential syndicates on Mars.

_Oh, fuck_. This was not good, and there was only one more song left… It was a hopeless little song; one that I had come to like. It was, however, short and there was no way that I could drag it on any longer… My heart stammered and my voice warbled as panic set in. I felt trapped – a feeling I knew well. But here, in the nightclub, the feeling seemed foreign. My little oasis had been sucked dry, and now my life was impeded by a force I had tried to escape… The syndicates…

The song ended all too soon, and I just stood on the small corner stage blankly. I'm sure I looked like a deer caught in headlights as I tried to collect my thoughts. The collecting my thoughts part felt like it took an eternity. It was not until one of the band members, Jamie, touched me lightly on my shoulder that my heady state subsided.

"Are you alright, Julia?" he asked softly.

I turned nervously, and managed a half-hearted smile. "Yeah," I choked.

He was either easily fooled, or was good at humoring others, because he answered with an easy smile and a nod of his head. "You weren't at practice this afternoon, and we were concerned. What happened to your hand?"

I had to resist a nervous chuckle. I'm sure by "concern" he really meant "pissed the hell off". A pang of guilt hit my stomach as I thought about how callous I was to have done that to the band.

"Oh, I sliced it while cutting vegetables," I lied, to my amazement, convincingly.

"You really should get that looked at," Jamie said, glancing down at my half-assed wrap job.

"It's fine really…" _It's supposed to be bloody like that_, I wanted to add as I inspected the bandage.

"About last night…" he began.

_Oh, yeah. He was there wasn't he? Weren't they all there?_ My thoughts raced.

"That's not usual, and no one wants you to leave because of it," he added.

I don't know why, but I thought there was some hidden meaning veiled beneath those innocuous words. Perhaps I was becoming increasingly paranoid. Perhaps I was losing what little I had of my mind, but as my mind began to race, I quickly scanned his face for any expression that would confirm my suspicions. I could hardly process what I saw, and almost instantaneously I rushed off stage. My expression must have betrayed the horror that gripped me upon reading him, because soon after departing I could hear his voice call after me.

I rushed to my dressing room. Big mistake. Once I had entered the room, I was met with the nameless syndicate companion of the blond from last night. He looked rather relaxed seated in my chair in front of the vanity. The door behind me seemed to close on its own volition, that is, until I spun around on my heels to discover that the blond from the night before had shut it, and was now blocking it… Hindsight _is_ 20/20.

"Julia, is it?" the brunet inquired knowingly.

I answered with a worried gaze in his direction. "Who _are_ you?"

"Not that you _need_ to know, but my name is Wen," he said this while beginning to stand. I don't know if he was trying to intimidate me by his size, but the tactic wasn't working. The man stood lean at approximately six feet, and in heels I'm not much shorter.

"What do you want?" I tried sounding demanding. I don't think it worked since "Wen" responded with a sly smile.

"I came here to kill you," his voice remained nonchalant as if those were the most natural words ever uttered. "But don't worry, my little brother here assures me that you could be of some use."

At this point I began to cough, gasping for air, for I had been holding my breath in for too long. My eyes widened as I turned to glance at the blond. "Brother?" I managed to cough out. "You two don't look like brothers." Of all the things to say, of all of the protests that could have been uttered, of all of the screams and cries that could have been yelled, all I could mention was how dissimilar the two looked. _Bright_…

Wen looked about as shocked as I felt at the observation. He chuckled for a moment, placing a hand to the back of his neck before flashing a boyish smile. "No, I suppose we're not brothers in the biological sense," he admitted.

I inhaled deeply in anticipation – waiting for him to explain to me why they _were_ there.

"Sources tell me that you belong to the yakuza in the Eastern Block…that you ran away…"

I grimaced and tightly folded my arms against my chest upon hearing those words. I didn't _belong_ to anyone or anything, I don't care how much money or power they supposedly had.

"Judging by your expression, I'm guessing that I've hit a nerve. No?"

I adverted my eyes, and clenched my jaw in reply. I could feel my body seething in anger. I'd gladly accept his offer of death before returning to the hellhole that was the brothel.

He smiled, amused. "We're having an _issue_ with some of our own prostitutes…"

"Where's the gun?" I asked dryly, holding back any tears of hopelessness that might have otherwise escaped.

A half-grin thinned one side of Wen's lips. He opened his jacket to reveal he had no weapons on him. It was after his display that I head the metallic clank of what sounded to be a gun. My eyes quickly shot over to the side of the vanity where Vicious had laid down his Colt.

"If you want to kill yourself, here," Vicious responded in a gruff tone.

Both Wen and I looked at the man in a state of shock and confusion. Okay, perhaps I looked at him in shock, and Wen looked at him in confusion. I could scarce believe that he would hand me over his gun so I could off myself. I would have thought he would have enjoyed performing the task himself. Wen, now that I think back on it, was probably doing everything humanly possible to not reveal the obvious – the two were, supposedly, weaponless. If I had been of the mind, I could have taken the gun and shot them both. Unfortunately, the thought of shooting the two of them had not occurred to me.

"Wait," Wen gagged out breathlessly. Judging by his abrupt response, I'm sure he was half-expecting me to either shoot myself or them. "We don't want you as one of our prostitutes," he elaborated quickly. "We want you to pose as one."

My eyes narrowed at this. "There's a difference?" my voice scrutinized.

"Indeed," he said, trying to muffle his shaky voice with a forced chuckle.

I turned my gaze to Vicious, who's otherwise impassive expression revealed that he too seemed suspect of his "brother's" motives.

"You will have to sleep with no one, and you can keep the payment from the Johns," Wen stated dryly.

"So, exactly how does one go about being a whore who doesn't sleep with her clients?"

At this Wen shot me the most wicked of grins. "Oh, I'm sure _you _can _guess_," he answered with lifted brow. "The only thing is, if there are any problems with you, you will suffer a fate worse than death…"

He didn't need to say what that fate was. It was clear by my actions and his knowledge of my past, that if I fucked up, I would be shipped back to the Yellow Fins.

"What do you want me to do?" I asked despondently.

"She looks nice in that black dress, doesn't she, Vicious?"

I knew it! The dress! That goddamned dress.

"She'd look better without the bandages," Vicious responded matter-of-factly.

"Give me your hand." Wen firmly took hold of my wounded appendage, and sat back down on the chair. "Don't tell me you tried to commit suicide, or something," he sighed while unraveling the wraps.

I rolled my eyes. "No, but the thought had occurred," I muttered under my breath.

"What?" he growled. I didn't respond. I just stood impatiently watching him inspect the wound. At the sight of it, I instinctively looked away and pressed my lips firmly together upon feeling bile rise in my throat.

"We don't have time to deal with it properly," Wen said to Vicious, who was also looking the wound over. "Here, cover it with some make-up," he demanded before releasing my hand in disgust.

"As long as you're working for us, _don't ever do that again_," he hissed before taking to his feet and moving toward the door. Wen, with hand on the doorknob, paused. "Vicious, make sure she complies and then take her to the studio. Mr. P. awaits an escort," he ordered before exiting the dressing room.

I pursed my lips together and breathed a sigh as I looked Vicious over. He was in the process of fitting his Colt back into his shoulder holster when he must have felt my eyes linger on him for too long. He responded by shooting me a piercing stare, which I'm sure worked well at intimidating most…yet it seemed to have no effect on me. I was use to it by now. So use to it, in fact, I had perfected one of my own. Although, I think the "drop dead" gaze comes standard issue in most females…

I, then, sat down in front of the vanity and began working on covering my hand. The make-up wasn't working, and Vicious must have noticed this. "Do you have anything else to cover it with?"

I shot him a scathing glare. _If I did don't you think I would be using it?_ I thought bitterly.

"Jewelry?" he asked.

I grimaced. Nothing was going to be able to cover the wound on my knuckles, and rings would just aggravate the cuts on my fingers. Nevertheless, I yanked open a drawer to the vanity. The former singer apparently had left _abruptly_, and there were still some trinkets of hers in some of the drawers.

"Whatever happened to the last singer?" I asked dryly as I continued rummaging through the drawer.

"She's dead," he answered coldly.

For some reason I liked this guy's brutal honesty. It was better than having your freedom taken away by some lie. "How?"

"She took life too lightly."

I smiled widely at his statement. It was rife with double-meaning. "How formal does Mr. P. like it?" I asked pulling out a pair of long black gloves.

"Mr. P. is a man of convenience," he responded vaguely. However, I _got_ the idea. All I was to the client was a piece of meat, and why bother with clothes when they were just going to come right off?

"He'll tell you what he wants you to wear. Insist that the gloves stay on," Vicious continued as I slid my wounded hand into the silky material.

"So how does one go about being a call girl who doesn't sleep with her Johns?"

"Mr. P., at least, isn't interested in sex."

I laughed at the statement. "Then what _is_ he interested in?"

"He likes being… _punished_."

My eyebrows shot up. "So S&M? This ought to be easy."

"He will provide you with the accoutrements for your session," he elaborated as I touched up my make-up and hair.

"So what's it to you?" I gave him a sidelong glance as I lacquered my lips.

A long devious grin lengthened his lips. "You'll see," he responded more to himself than to me. "Be cautious. A lot of effort was put into setting this up…"

I furrowed my brow. "No one's going to die tonight, right?"

I should've known… But hindsight _is_ 20/20, isn't it?


End file.
